


Jewels of the Heart

by Galadriel



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Community: lotr_sesa, Dark, Elves, First Age, Gen, Introspection, Oath of Fëanor, Silmarils, The Two Trees of Valinor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 20:46:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9020818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel/pseuds/Galadriel
Summary: Fëanor will not let the Great Jewels slip away from him again.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Azzy_Darling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azzy_Darling/gifts).



> Happy Holidays, Azzy_Darling! I truly hope you enjoy this story. You had so many wonderful ideas, and I hope I've been able to do them some justice. If nothing else, I hope this little tale has the feel you were looking for, of power as an ever-driving force. Thanks so much for the fun prompt! I wish I had had more time to give it the full treatment, but I really do hope this smaller plate will give you the taste you wanted. Have a wonderful holiday season!

At night, in the depths of the dark, when even the stars dim in the skies above, Fëanor sits, quiet and still, staring out into the blackness, the only hint of movement the glimmer of iron and steel as he runs a whetstone over the edge of his sword.

His eyes wide open, his breath slow and deep, he seems ever on watch, ever on guard as his sons rest. 

Yet his eyes see nothing: not the tall trees that surround them, not the inky dark that envelops them, not the family that has gone into exile with him. All he sees is a memory of light, of Telperion and Laurelin, suspended in glittering rock, blinding in their brightness. 

He sees, and he knows deep down in his bones that he will hold them again. They will sit in his palms, heavy and warm, and the knot in his chest, the one that coiled together, tangled up on the day Finwë fell will loosen and slip free. 

He will no longer linger in the memory of a floor dark with blood, granite and marble blurred under wet, sticky _red_ pooling and spreading at Fëanor's feet, into the cracks between tiles, into the veins and crevices of solid stone. He will not mourn at the silence that spreads out with his realization that his father's spirit has already fled to the Halls beyond them all.

 _He_ will be free.

And he will sit, once again, where his father sat, jewels in each hand, throne cradling his body.

A soft rustle has Fëanor's head turning. Curufin shifts, a whisper of cloth against bark, and for a moment Fëanor can see his sons clearly, quiet and still, seven jewels of his heart, forged in fiery passion. He knows that they should be the glittering stones in his crown, gifts beyond compare, beyond the light of the Trees themselves, beyond all but Nerdanel herself. 

He knows this, and he tries to feel it, reaching for the shape of it, groping for the edges of love and tenderness that should limn the lines of faithfulness and family. He knows it as well as he knows the slope of Amras' and Amrod's shoulders as they lean towards each other, lost in the kind of conversations that only exist between twins. He knows it as well as he knows the faces of his children; the faithfulness of Maedhros, the forthrightness of Maglor, the furor of Celegorm. He knows that he loves them, in that same distant way that he knows that the sun will warm his face come morning. It is a fact indisputable, one without room for doubt, but neither does it require rumination. It sits in the back of his mind, alongside a collection of other mundane facts of his life, all the tiny things that make him _him_. 

"Father?" The word floats lightly through the air, curling lazily into the whorl of his ear. Caranthir is looking at him, concern etched on his features. 

Fëanor nods, mustering a smile from somewhere in the depths of his body. "Rest. All is well." He schools his expression into something he hopes feigns comfort and care. Caranthir turns away, resuming a quiet conversation with Curufin, hopefully mollified for now.

He loves each one of them, Fëanor knows, loves them more than all the riches of the earth.

But Laurelin and Telperion are not of the earth. Not _this_ earth, anyway. 

Fëanor's gaze slides over his sons. He would die for any one of them. Lay down his life, and follow his father into Halls without a second thought.

He would do that.

For anything but the Light of the Trees.

His sword must surely be sharp enough now, sharp enough to cleave the betrayer Morgoth in two. The night is black enough, and the missing moon will help to keep them hidden, refusing to rise until the Silmarils are back in hands worthy of their weight. He can taste the Oath on his tongue, filling his mouth, lingering there, the shadow of each word still shaped, still pushing against his lips.

He would speak the words aloud again, feel them sharp and jagged between his teeth, pushing him ever forward to victory or defeat, but he has seen twinned looks of apprehension in Maedhros' and Maglor's eyes, even as they pledged to make war unceasing, and he would not have them spooked, for fear they will turn tail like his brother did, condemning themselves to Finarfin's cowardice and Ilúvatar's curse.

Finarfin, who would sit on their father's throne, quiet and content in his compliance, letting the Light slip through his fingers, letting the last remnants of Silver and Gold fade away.

Anger burns in Fëanor's breast. The Oath tastes of iron and copper, sword and wound, and it will not be quenched. They will attack when the night is at its darkest, taking the enemy by surprise. They will not expect knives in the dark; they will not expect Elves without star and moonlight.

The whetstone's hiss grows as Fëanor presses stone more firmly to blade. Soon, his sword will cut Morgoth down, or it will see him cut down himself. 

He had caught the very essence of the Trees in the finest of jewels. _He_ had done that. Fëanor, the great craftsman; Fëanor, the skillful; Fëanor, who was Curufinwë. The Silmarils had come from _his_ hands, and to them they would return. 

Fëanor loves his sons. That is an irrefutable fact.

But he knows deep in his bones, in the centre of his belly full of fire, that he will sacrifice any one of them in a heartbeat. 

He will see them all dead before he sees the Silmarils slip away again.


End file.
